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His eyes must betray his own hunger, his own eagerness, for the next thing he knows Vegas is standing, towering over him, pressing his thumb further into Pete's mouth. He starts to shift, knee coming up by Pete's hip, lowering himself on top of the omega with slow, deliberate movements. Pete whines, desperate for more, his anger and frustration and hurt forgotten—for the moment, at least—because Vegas is here, touching him and coming towards him. Vegas is going to kiss him and envelop him in his delicious scent and—
Pete freezes.
Pete knows Vegas' scent.
It's burning wood and encompassing smoke, dark and heady, complimented by citrusy undertones. It's something that Pete has always enjoyed, even before Vegas noticed him he looked forward the Minor Family visits at the compound, because it meant getting a whiff of such an alluring, intoxicating scent.
The smell that floods his nostrils is decidedly not Vegas'.
It's the salt water on the sea breeze, with hints of spiced rum adding an edge to the entirely omegan scent.
'You smell like Porsche,' he bites out, sitting up on the bed and glaring down at where Vegas is slowly coming to his knees. 'You let him scent you?'
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8
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Bookmark Notes:
not read yet, waiting till its finished , now its at 5